Wednesday, 28 July 2010
16:58 | Posted by
Dale Darley |
Q&A - Jacqui Malpass
What did you learn from your parents?
How not to run a relationship springs to mind. On a more positive note from mum her wonderful creativity and from my dad generosity.
When you were 13 what did you want to be when you grew up?
This is very funny, I remember saying to a load of kids once that when I grow up I will be a stripper. I have no idea where that came from and now it’s a bit late to be flaunting my body for money. That aside I think I probably wanted to strut my stuff on the cat walk or be in a rock band. More likely the rock band, I can see it in my minds eye.
If you could give your childhood self some advice, what would it be?
Believe in yourself. Stay in school and get an education. I ended up expelled and having to study as an adult.
What’s your biggest fear?
I am terrified of walking by sheer edges with water down below. It is irrational and quite maddening as I love to walk. Once I went walking with my partner and we ended up on a very narrow path with a sheer drop one side, he was up ahead and had no idea how scared I was, I was of course too proud to ask for help until my legs wobbled so much that I thought I would fall over, by which time I could hardly breathe. I called out ‘Richard…. There’s something I forgot to tell you…’ He was fantastic and we got to the top somehow.
When was the last time you cried?
In the garden not long ago. I can’t remember why, but I’d had a drink and the tears flowed. I often well up when I hear sad stories; I am and always will be a real softie.
Which book changed your life?
Little Women. I loved Jo who was a tomboy and who had a passion for writing, she had such sprit and independence and still a kind heart. I really identified with her. I cried when Beth died.
What is your cultural guilty pleasure?
Books, far too many to read, but I just keep buying them, hoping that there will be something different and there rarely is.
Are you an optimist or a pessimist?
Always look on the bright side of life ta da ta da!
Who do you listen to when you need critical advice?
As much as I hate to admit it, my partner can see things very clearly and after I get over being annoyed at his plain common sense, I am really rather pleased that I asked him.
Do you ever have a crisis of confidence?
Of course doesn’t every one? I support the mantra feel the fear but do it anyway. That is of course when I am not procrastinating.
There should be an advert here about some up and coming thing that I am doing. So watch this space I am sure it’s coming soon.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
I arrived at the beach, 6am, cold and unprepared. Unprepared for the smack of cold air on my face, the colours emerging through the early morning mists and the way that the scene commanded me to stay still, mesmerizing me. Tucking my hands in my pockets and pulling my hoodie over my damp hair, I headed towards the haze. As the waves carelessly crashed onto the shore, foamed and sauntered back, I was reminded of the way my ideas and thoughts often welled up reaching a crescendo, only to clattered against each other as I over analysed them, washed back into the grey seas of my mind along with the litter of other peoples failed dreams. I turn, my back to the water, a cauldron of deep dark blue, the golden sand before me, unbroken and fresh with opportunity. Virgin land. Shoes off, big toe pointed, I dig through the soggy sand, dragging and dancing. Whooping my first circle in the sand. 10 minutes later many rings of hope lay in front of me, connecting spheres of achievement, random, somehow together and yet still apart. Standing quite still, my circles before me, pale blue sky above me, a watery orchestra caressing me. Safe. My thoughts let loose are whispered into the wind, sent spiraling into the universe creating an umbrella over my kingdom. Peace. It seemed like an eternity as I watched humanity race past me, too fast for the naked eye. I step into the maelstrom, hands reach out to push me through the fabric of time, carrying me away on an ocean of endless possibilities. The journey continues.Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Around my heart is a thick rope. Old, worn and ingrained with dirt. Its frayed from constant chaffing. The braids are as thick as my fingers. No one cares about the rope but for me its use is clear. It encases my vibrant beating heart like entwined digits, stretching as I breathe. My heart hurts, the pulsating muscle needs the tightly wrapped rope around it for protection. The bristles irritate it, but tell me I am alive. They force my heart to fight back. The rope is wrapped around 5 times and finished with a neatly tied bow. One tug of the bow and it will release my cocooned organ. When the time comes I will pull gently and allow myself to feel again. But for now the rope holds my heart in place. Inside the rope I place one small rose quartz crystal, its gentle pink energy strangely at odds with the pale dirty rope. They clash yet balance.
My mind wanders to what should be. Words cannot describe the simple pain that tears through my chest. I let my guard down. I let you in. You stayed for a brief moment and left. Stepped into my space and lifetimes whirled by. I knew you from somewhere, were you a lover in another life? I reached out, touched and felt you returned to me, I savoured the moments. My hands wandered over smooth flesh, my lips meeting yours told me it was meant to be. In times past it was a secret love cut short. In this life you may be gone, I will have you back. This time, I will catch you and not let go.
I left my mark on you, my hands poured healing energy into your heart, my kiss will linger on your lips, my smell in your nostrils and soft touch on your bare skin will constantly remind you. I gave you my blessing to leave me, it was a gift. I know you will be back.
In the lost moments of your anger what did you do? Did you reach for the blade that lay drying on the board. Feel the cold hard plastic handle comfortable in your grip. Squeeze it tightly whilst adrenaline rushes up your arm, stiffens your shoulder and wires your brain. Your thoughts clear, your intentions precise.
Will it only be one stab? Accurately placed, fatality guaranteed. Or will you stab in a frenzy, enjoying the viciousness of the attack?
Then stop as calmness returns, a small trickle of sweat running down your face, drips into your mouth, as you savour your work. The villain is down, you hear his (or her) last breath. The room bloody and splattered, his (or her) artery pumping its last drops of precious liquid.
No in that last moment you realise that the police would know it was you. You couldn't carry the lump into the garden, it would take all night to bury. After, you have to re arranged the plants, clean up the mess, burn your clothes, scrub the floors, all whilst devising a plausible story of why he (or she) was no longer with you.
In the next blink of an eye your sense returns, your grip on the knife of freedom loosens.
You turn to your tormentor and say "Yes dear, whatever you say".
Will it only be one stab? Accurately placed, fatality guaranteed. Or will you stab in a frenzy, enjoying the viciousness of the attack?
Then stop as calmness returns, a small trickle of sweat running down your face, drips into your mouth, as you savour your work. The villain is down, you hear his (or her) last breath. The room bloody and splattered, his (or her) artery pumping its last drops of precious liquid.
No in that last moment you realise that the police would know it was you. You couldn't carry the lump into the garden, it would take all night to bury. After, you have to re arranged the plants, clean up the mess, burn your clothes, scrub the floors, all whilst devising a plausible story of why he (or she) was no longer with you.
In the next blink of an eye your sense returns, your grip on the knife of freedom loosens.
You turn to your tormentor and say "Yes dear, whatever you say".
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Yesterday I was talking to the lovely Michelle Clarke on the way back from a day trip to London. The car was filled with a great energy as we gassed about all sorts and I was reminded of a person who is sadly no longer a friend and of all of the people we no longer have in our lives because of their toxic energy.
We cannot change others, we can only change ourselves and we deserve to have only the right people in our lives who value us for who we are and give us the space and the freedom to be who we are. This short piece was written a while ago after a visit from this friend, who left me wondering why for some its always grey skies and for others even when its cold and damp outside relish the cool breeze on their faces and the fresh air as it hits thier lungs and reminds us of all the beauty around.
Awaking to the sound of the birds singing, you think bugger off
You walk by the running river and see only the concrete path
Overhead the emerging skies are filled with hope, you see rain
Through your window the blossoms are wilting, leaves turning brown
The tea has no taste; it’s a hot, wet morning drink
Toast like cardboard, salty greasy butter, jam sickly and sweet
You hate today, its like every other day, nobody cares, you know it
Hiding from the knock on the door, nobody calling for you
You get through life, nothing to look forward to, frequent hot, violent tears
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
You walk by the running river and see only the concrete path
Overhead the emerging skies are filled with hope, you see rain
Through your window the blossoms are wilting, leaves turning brown
The tea has no taste; it’s a hot, wet morning drink
Toast like cardboard, salty greasy butter, jam sickly and sweet
You hate today, its like every other day, nobody cares, you know it
Hiding from the knock on the door, nobody calling for you
You get through life, nothing to look forward to, frequent hot, violent tears
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
The curtains are open the daylight streams in, a new day begins
You awake with weak warm sun on your face, cocooned in your duvet, safe
The chorus greets you, natures daily miracle, sings to you
Looking out of your window, the outside calls for your company
Light perfume tea delicate on your palette lingers in your mouth
Alive today and every day, living in the now, freedom, you can touch it
Later when walking by the sea, thundering sounds stir your soul
Conversation and laughter with friends, white wine, black beer and chocolate
Kisses and gentle touches from your lover to come
You seize the day, nothing to be feared, everything to be savoured and learned
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
Monday, 5 April 2010
Standing in the large room in my paint splattered jeans and T-shirt, I surveyed my blank canvas, 4 walls waiting for the caress of my paint brush to be coated in colours that would entice lovers to sink nightly into each others arms.
Everyone loves blue, dark, light, powder, bright, royal, mystical, exciting and calming. A colour for nights of love or sleep after the hectic torment of a day in work.
The pot in front of me was pale, fresh and new, gentle like the emerging spring morning. The label declared powder blue.
Hands on hips I smiled. The bright sun was streaming though the windows, I turned my face upwards, closed my eyes, the warmth kissed me, it was a beautiful day. Outside the tall leafy tree hid me from the passers by, alone in my world. Screw driver in hand I opened up the paint. The smell permeated my nostrils, I sniffed deep, acrid chemicals crept up my nose and lingered just a moment too long at the back of my throat. As I placed the lid on the bare floorboards I imagined how the room will look once finished, carpeted and adorned with our bed covered in new linen, selected to match the style being created.
Only this weekend this room would know my spite, no colours for sex but soft powder blue, the colour he hated, a colour that would remind him of his childhood. The lazy man that I had chosen to buy a house with had decided once again that he had better things to do. At the suggestion that our bedroom needed completing he had donned his black leathers climbed aboard his fast motorbike and sped away to friends in London.
I sighed. Paint brush in hand, I dipped it into the thick goo, coated, I was ready for the attack. A lunacy came over me as I ran at the wall, slapped the brush hard against it and watched paint being splattered everywhere. I snarled. I jabbed like a sword fight using the brush as my rapier into the wallpaper. The wallpaper that I had single handedly put up only the week before. Only to be criticised for air pockets as he strutted around the room, spitefully pointing out my mistakes. Well take that, I cried as I jabbed again. Hysterical laughter filled the air, I looked around to see where it was coming from, it was me. I stopped and took a hold of myself, deep breath I had a room to paint.
The off white wallpaper slowly disappeared and became cool calming blue pages, blank waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.
Sitting in the doorway, Jonesy, a black and white cat kept me company. I didn’t know until years later that this cat belonged to someone else, he became my permanent companion as I created a home from the mess.
My stomach rumbled it was time for tea and biscuits. I put down the loaded brush and wiped my hands down my already crusty jeans and clomped down the bare stairs to the old cream kettle. Minutes later I was back hot steaming cup in hand to survey my work. Sipping slowly as I reviewed my art. Powder blue, colour hex code #B0E0E6, just a number not a spell, nothing to symbolize and strengthen this relationship.
Slurping the dregs of the tea, I inhaled deeply, I was satisfied with my efforts. The light was now fading from the window, hours had passed in the now tranquil room and a soft shadow fell. I packed up and made for home, certain that tomorrow would bring another deluge of comments about my handy work. Who cared?
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